


Ameneurosis

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Gambling Addiction, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 10:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5452658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is trying to leave the memories of Sherlock behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ameneurosis

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [London9Calling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/London9Calling/pseuds/London9Calling) in the [23emotions](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/23emotions) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> ameneurosis
> 
> n. the half-forlorn, half-escapist ache of a train whistle calling in the distance at night.

It’s been five months since the accident.

John prefers calling it ‘the accident’ rather than giving voice to what really happened. His therapist says it’s a tell of just how deeply he was affected and just how clearly in denial he is; about how he refuses till this day to consider Sherlock Holmes as anything less than what he is—was…a great man.

John doesn’t like to call it suicide. He knows that’s what it was; he knows that there’s no other word for what actually happened that day at the hospital. That doesn’t mean he’ll say it out loud. That Sherlock would take his own life over something so…small as reputation (at least it had always seemed to be low on his friend’s list of priorities)…seems to John an impossibility he never thought would have happened.

But it did; and now his days are silent.

Silent, and calm, and boring. 

There are no chases through alleys, no fights in the moors, not even the faint smell of embalming fluid that used to stink up their kitchen. John never thought he’d miss the smell of embalming fluid.

He was still at baker street. He hadn’t moved anything of Sherlock’s and he was still slightly surprised that Mycroft hadn’t barged in one afternoon to haul it all out. Not that Sherlock had left a will, but possessions usually went to next of kin.

Some days John was glad for it. The cluttered mess that Sherlock left behind was a stark reminder that it had been real; that he hadn’t imagined their time together. 

Some days… like today….John couldn’t even make himself breakfast without crying. 

He stood there, spatula in hand as the bacon burned in the pan. He hadn’t even dressed yet…he just stood there in plain white boxers and an old t-shirt…crying.

“Damn you, Sherlock! This is the third time this week!” he turned his gaze to the skull still on the mantle, “And don’t you look at me that way! It’s your fault and you know it!”

At some point since the accident John had taken to talking to the skull as if it were Sherlock. As if some miracle might happen and the man would be able to hear him if he concentrated hard enough. 

“John? John, are you alright? I heard yelling?” Mrs.Hudson called through the door.

“I’m fine.”

He wasn’t fine; but no need to worry the woman. 

He ended up tossing the bacon and skipping eggs all together in favour of a distasteful sandwich from the hospital cafeteria when he arrived at work.

He had switched hospitals. He couldn’t walk near Bart’s let alone work there after what happened. 

He hadn’t seen Molly since the funeral. There had been no point without sherlock to drag him to the morgue. In fact, he hadn’t seen anyone much. Sure, he’d had one or two pints with Greg, but they were mostly stilted and both never talked about what the yard was getting up to… it was too painful to think of whether or not Sherlock would have enjoyed the latest case the man was working on.

“John, your first appointment is here,” Ashley, the new secretary buzzed into his office.

“Send them in.”

The door squeaked unpleasantly as he started filling in a new patient form.

“John,” 

John looked up and sighed.

“Molly. What are you doing here? I have an appointment any second now. Can this wait?”

Molly blushed lightly, “Actually. I’m your appointment. I’ve got a bit of a head cold and I heard you have lovely bedside manners.” 

John frowned, “You could’ve just called me.”

“You don’t take calls anymore, John. You don’t take texts. You didn’t even answer my email,” Molly looked well and truly hurt.

John gestured to the chair beside his desk, “You want to talk? Fine. Let’s talk.”

Molly nodded, “Thank you.”

John gestured for her to speak, “What do you want, Molly?”

Molly sighed, “I want you to be you again, John. You’ve been so depressed lately, I think you need to do something about it. I don’t know what that’ll be or what it could look like. But you have to find a way to cope with what happened.”

John’s brow furrowed slightly, “What happened…”

“Yes,”

“What happened is MY FRIEND IS DEAD! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO COPE WITH THAT?” John’s voice cracked as he yelled. 

Molly jumped in her seat a little but remained otherwise calm, “John.”

“Don’t..” John pointed his finger at her, “Just don’t.”

Molly was calm as she spoke, “When it first happened I went to the hospital cafeteria where we met. I’d been waiting in line to buy some crisps when he swooped and told me how nice I looked…at least in so many words. He just wanted to get into the morgue of course…but he was still nice for a while. It hurts sometimes…to think of him there and those memories I have of him with me. Every time I buy a pack of crisps I feel a little weepy and stupid. But I had to do it. Think of him. If I didn’t think of those good memories. Than all I’d have left was the loss.”

John let a beat of silence pass between them.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Try and find Sherlock, John. Find him somewhere...so that you can leave him there. Not forever obviously. He’ll still be in your memories…but let them rest for a while…until they don’t hurt anymore.” 

“I don’t think I can do something like that, Molly.” 

“You should try. Maybe visit the places you solved cases together? It could be a sort of…last hurrah.”

John blinked.

“I’ll think about it.”

::::

He thought about it. He thought about it for days until he decided to throw caution to the wind and bought a one way ticket to Dartmoor. 

He wasn’t sure why he chose to start there. He therapist might have said it was because of all that had happened there between them. The apologies…the confessions…

Either way, he ended up back in the little inn in the countryside.  
Upon check in he received a key to a single bed room, a meal pass for a local pub, and a pitying look from the owners when he answered their questions about his ‘partner’ with the words, “He passed away.”

With a long sigh he flopped out on his bed. He didn’t know how long he’d stay there, but he knew he wanted to go out on the moors at least one night. Not that running scared from a hallucinatory dog had been a good memory, but he couldn’t exactly go to Baskerville.

He groaned and stretched out his back; he might as well have a quick nap before he did any hiking.

:::

His quick nap ended up being hours long. Long enough that by the time he woke up the winter sky had stolen the sun away despite it only being six o’clock. 

He rolled on his boots and shrugged on his coat before heading out of the hotel and down the path to the moors with a torch and a map he borrowed from the inn. 

He followed the path and the map that lead him back into the familiar hollow that had caused Henry Knight so much grief. At the moment it seemed to be causing John some grief as well. 

He remembered the way Sherlock had looked so utterly proud with himself when he had guided the authorities to the pressure-pads for safe removal; the childish look of happiness at having solved another case. It made John ache.

“Sherlock,” John sighed heavily. 

The pressure pads and hallucinogenic gas had been removed; and wasn’t that a pity? John could’ve used a bit of a rush just then. He wouldn’t mind seeing Sherlock’s face even if it was just a hallucination. 

CHOOOOOOOOOOOoOoOoOOooooooooooooooo CHOooooOo

The whistle of a train called out in the distance. 

John nearly sobbed as he leaned heavily against a bare tree. What was the point anymore? Why did he think he could come here and somehow magically leave Sherlock behind? 

Memories like the one’s they shared together aren’t the kind that can be so easily shelved.

::::::

He returned to London the next morning and informed Mrs. Hudson he would be leaving Baker street.

Two weeks later he got a tiny flat near his work and far away from any memory of Sherlock.

Five days later Mike Stamford invited him to a poker night with some of his old med school pals. 

A week after that he started gambling.

A month later and he was being evicted… he’d gambled away almost everything in his savings account. 

He ended up on Lestrade’s couch with Molly, Mrs.Hudson,and hell, even Anderson had showed up for his intervention. 

“John,” Molly… voice ever calm…

“How? How can you be so calm? All the time…all the time you’re so calm about everything…” 

“John, mate…this gambling has got to stop. You can crash here until you get back on your feet, but you need to move on,” Greg put a firm hand on his shoulder.

::::::

He stopped gambling. He got his life back on track for the most part. He meet a woman, Mary. He had a date with her next week. 

It had been a year. 

A year since Sherlock’s suicide. 

He didn’t like to call it that. But that’s what it had been. He had to except it…even if it was painful.

::::::

He showed up at the cemetery with a bouquet of flowers… red tulips and asphodel.

“I know you never cared much for sentimental things like this..but I thought you’d appreciate the symbolism at least,” He place the wrapped flowers on the bed of browning grass in front of Sherlock’s headstone. 

“It’s been a year. I know I haven’t been by to visit much and I’m sorry… but you have to understand Sherlock..” he paused, taking a deep breath.  
“You had to have known what you meant to me. You had to have known how much I loved your sorry arse; despite all your flaws and despite all the body parts in our fridge…. I loved you,” he was crying now.

“That’s why I don’t understand…will never understand…why you left me. WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME HERE SHERLOCK? YOU AND YOUR BLOODY MAGNIFICENT MIND COULDN’T DEDUCE HOW MUCH I NEEDED YOU? You… you…” John was hoarse from shouting. He’d been doing it so often.

“You were so brave; so loyal, and brave, and beautiful…god Sherlock, were you beautiful…” John knelt down next to the headstone, resting his check upon the cold surface.

“I miss you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Forgive me for taking so long.” 

“I wish you’d say something.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” 

He pressed a soft kiss to the marble of the headstone and left.


End file.
